The Difference of Night and Day
by Becca Asry
Summary: What would have happened if the Lady Gwenefar fell in love with the Lady of the instead of her cousin? Read and review!
1. Default Chapter

It all started that day by the lake. The day, Galahad and I climbed the Torr and were almost lost in each other's arms. I thought I loved him then and would gladly have given myself to him that very afternoon had the Goddess not chosen me for a different path. As it was, I almost did. But I was young, and he was strong, dark, and handsome-- a male version of myself. When I looked into his eyes all I saw was me. But that's enough of Galahad.  
  
That afternoon doesn't cling to me because of Galahad or my girlish fantasies of a knight in shining armor, it was the day I first met Gwenefar. I still remember it so clearly . . .  
  
I was in my shift, wet and muddy from traipsing all afternoon by the shores of the Lake. She was shining and pure, golden, in the late afternoon sunlight. Galahad was mesmerized. I was jealous.  
  
She was everything that I could never be: tall, slender, pale, delicate, and blond, like an angel. And I hated her for it. I felt like an ugly lump of clay walking behind a porcelain doll. Dark and light. Faerie and Woman.  
  
We belonged to different worlds, Gwen and I, but our paths still crossed more than either of us could ever have known that first afternoon. She probably didn't even remember the dark tree-like girl quickly guiding her Highness back to safety, the convent. How was she to know that she would one day marry my brother? Rule my people? Raise my child? Think of me? But then again, I could never have guessed where we would be today, I could never have imagined the twists and turns in my once strait path. But who does?  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"Hello Morgaine, how good of you to grace us with your presence"  
  
Why do I always sound so cold when I speak to her?  
  
She is a witch. Evil. No woman a good Christian queen like me should be indebted to.  
  
Then that rye smile and my once iron resolve of annoyance and disdain is melted away. It can't survive that smile, my loathing never could.  
  
"Happy Beltaine to you too, my Lady"  
  
Her dark hair is pulled back into a web of tightly braided silk and hair. Her hair is what tells me when it is a festival day. Rain or shine, if there is no celebration, Morgaine's hair will be in one long rope of ebony down her strait back. And if there is something to celebrate, a web-- beautiful and complex-- just like her.  
  
Now stop. I'm are a highborn lady, a queen. I am happily married to every maiden's fantasy, the Lord of the Round Table. Arthur. I love him, I really do, it's just . . .. He is my friend. My lover, but that spark, that flame, isn't ours to command anymore. Ever since last Beltaine when Lancelot, Arthur, and I shared his bed, he has only had eyes for his henchman. Lancelot. My first love.  
  
I wonder what would have happened if things had gone differently. If I hadn't been the naïve and vulnerable girl I was when I married Arthur. If I had had the courage to marry Lancelot sooner. He loved me. They both did. But now they love each other. I don't begrudge them that, Christ no. I just wish I could read my heart then as truly as I can now.  
  
"My Lady? It is time to prepare for the jousting match my Lady. Can you hear me?"  
  
Drats. My reverie has gotten the best of me again. Snap out of it Gwen. Come alive.  
  
"Ah, yes. It is time already? Well, I'm coming then. Morgaine, would you do me the honor of braiding my hair for the festivities?"  
  
"But of course, Gwen"  
  
We are so close I can smell her. She is the forest, wild and unknown, but strangely intriguing. She is behind me now, her breasts pressed into the middle of my back. Her nipples tantalizing in their proximity. Can she feel the racing of my heart? Why is she this close? Surely not just to braid my hair . . . No, just to reach her little arms around me to bring all of my hair in reach. I can breathe again. Her weight no longer rests against me, but as her fingers begin to weave my hair into something beautiful all my senses leap towards that place of contact. Where her fingers brush my scalp. Who would have thought that so much sense can be concentrated in on one scalp? But I treasure every tiny second of contact we share. I grasp it and hide it away in my heart where I can look back on it. I treasure each moment because it is always the last one.  
  
"There, all done. Your hair is truly fit for the Queen that you are"  
  
The braiding is over far too soon. I long to undo her recent work of art just so she will have to stay to re-do it. So she will be forced to stay near to me for one moment longer. Instead, I simply smile as she walks away.  
  
Curses. I should be damned. These feelings are not healthy, unnatural. I should tell my confessor. But what will he say? That it is bad enough to lust after a pagan, but even worse for that pagan to be an evil woman, descendant of Eve, the source of original sin. I couldn't bear to hear him speak of her thus. I will not have the Lady of the Lake spoken of with contempt in my presence. 


	2. Chapter Two

After so many heart straining years away from the Lake my heart still yearns for it on days like these. On days when the mixture of lust and love is explosive and the sun plays games with the hearts and minds of mortals. I miss the Beltaine fires and the processions. The couplings. I miss being alive, able and willing to feel all the vibrations of the earth, to feel joy and pain in the clouds and longing in the wind.  
  
Here everything is dead. Leaden skies ready to collapse on the unfaithful, and pompous feasts striving to fill the gap of the Ancient celebrations. They know it is not enough. I can sense the longing in their eyes at the preparations for bonfires on the distant hills, at the laughter and sunshine on the "simple folk's" dancing faces. Even Arthur knows that jousting is not enough. Even he can feel the Goddess contracting and aching for bliss. He can subconsciously sense his Mother's lines of power, longing for completion and observance. He cannot completely block it out, as much as he tries.  
  
I can see the longing in his eyes as Lancelot walks into the ring, muscles taught with anticipation. I can see it in his slightly open mouth, the sharp intake of breath, as he watches his henchman begin the fluid dance of swordplay, body exposed and inviting.  
  
But he is a good Christian King. Those feelings of beauty and love are hidden away under shame and revulsion. It is only when he relaxes into his childhood's wisdom for a moment that they come to the surface. It is on days like this, when the two religions meet under false pretences. Wasn't it this night that he first discovered this secret fire within?  
  
And what of my own secret passion? Even as I claim self righteousness and the ability to love freely whom I will, I cannot. I cannot shame my Gwenefar. It would only distress her to learn of my heathen tendencies. It would only serve to hurt her more. I could not bear that. I could never deliberately put her through any more pain and betrayal than she has already lived through. Not when I love her so much it hurts. Not when I can pinpoint her exact location at every moment of everyday. I am her silent guardian. At least I have that much. I have learned to be content.  
  
"Will you fetch me a glass of wine Morgaine?"  
  
With one sentence I am forcefully tugged back into the reality of the sawdust, sweat, and shouts of a Christian Beltaine afternoon.  
  
"Of course my lady" Why do I feel honour and happiness at fetching her small things, a glass of wine, her best comb? She has so much power over me, more than a queen should. My love is obsessive and pathetic. I am her slave, a slave to love. 


End file.
